


In Dreams

by hoealert



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: 2x07 Return, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27972989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoealert/pseuds/hoealert
Summary: Tom is having trouble sleeping. Greg can’t relate.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27
Collections: The Missing Hours: 3–5 a.m. on the night of March 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is hot garbage and I have no shame. I’ve never written a fic before but tomgreg really has me feeling some type of way.

Greg has shit taste in linen.

Tom stares at the ceiling, willing his body to go numb so he won’t have to feel what he could only assume were decade-old sheets bought on clearance at Bed Bath & Beyond. He couldn’t possibly imagine what the thread might could be, and the thought of it makes him want to ditch the plan and go home to his own bed. Unfortunately for Tom there were documents to be destroyed. Evidence to burn so the impending cruises shitshow wouldn’t land them in hot water. Or more precisely, land them in the boiling radioactive cesspool that was ready to swallow them whole and spit out their bones. No, he was here to stay and assure the offending paper trail was destroyed for good. So there he lay in Gregory’s bed, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Little things like this frustrated the hell out of Tom. Why the fuck was Greg sleeping on the fabric equivalent of cement when he lived in a fucking Manhattan penthouse? He scoffs in the dark at Greg’s sheer ineptitude for being rich. It baffled him. Tom was so desperate for a spot at the top of the mountain, so hyper-aware of the never-ending endeavor to truly assimilate into the upper echelon of society that something as simple as cheap sheets could send him into a mini rage. He made a mental note to get Greg a new set as he threw himself out of the bed with a sigh. Sleep was impossible, and if he was going to pull an all-nighter, he wasn’t going to do it alone.

Tom walks into the living room slowly, expecting to find his employee passed out on the couch where he’d left him earlier that night. He navigates the furniture in the dark, collapsing into an armchair that faced the heaving mass of limbs sprawled across the couch cushions. Greg was splayed out like a puppet, lying face down with an arm and a leg dangling over the edge. It was almost endearing how he could look both peaceful and discombobulated at the same time. Endearing and enraging. Tom grabs a magazine from the coffee table and takes aim at Greg’s head, fully prepared to wake him up and verbally assault him for the sins of his sheets. Before he can lob the magazine towards the couch, a muffled utterance escapes from Greg’s mouth.

“ _Tom_.”

Tom’s arm lowers. Had he woken Greg up already? Before he can respond, a low moan from Greg’s throat permeates the room. Greg sighs deeply, squirming as he repeats himself.

“ _Tooommmm_.”

Tom freezes. He stares at Greg’s shape in the dark, watching intently as the man shifts his weight and ruts against the cushions beneath him. Oh no. He’s not awake. Oh _no_. Greg’s breathing grows faster, ragged. This suddenly feels very intrusive, and Tom’s eyes dart away from the gentle thrashing in front of him as he contemplates his exit. He knows he should leave, but a second later his eyes find their way back to the silhouette of blankets and lanky body parts. He’s transfixed. Between short gasps, Greg speaks again.

_“Tooooommmmmm. I need…”_

Tom is motionless. He silently implores Greg to continue, to tell him what he needs. He wants to speak. Tell Greg that he could have anything he wanted. Just like that. He would give him the world and bathe in the shame of it all. He’s almost shocked by how quickly this admission sweeps through him. Almost. The insidious affection he felt towards his wife’s cousin had long been tucked somewhere far away, somewhere it could be willfully ignored in favor of cruel jabs and belittling outbursts. Calling Greg a fucking slimeball, a piece of shit, a lump of turducken…it was all just Tomspeak for “ _You’ve ruined me._ ” 

Now, in the dark of the living room, Tom is nearly vibrating as he watches Greg writhe in pleasure. He’s desperate for every syllable that slips from Greg’s lips.

_“I need you. Please? Tom.”_

Greg juts his hips against the cushion again. And again. And again. Each thrust coinciding with a guttural moan. Tom feels his pulse quicken, his own breathing becoming sporadic. He’s unraveling, heat overtaking his cheeks and traveling down his neck and chest. His pants tighten against his growing erection as he watches Greg’s hands grip the fabric of the couch tightly, using it to steady himself as he rocks into the cushions. Greg whimpers like he’s begging for something just within reach.

_“Pleeeaaaaase. Please. Please.”_

Tom can’t help stop himself from grabbing his own cock through the thin material of his pajama bottoms. He pushes down with his hand, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He palms himself as Greg continues to gasp and thrust and groan in front of him.

_“Tom. Yes. Yes. Please. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.”_

Greg comes against the couch with a slew of grunts, his hips stiffening before giving away a final time. Tom marvels at him. He’s close. He slides his hand below his waistband and starts stroking. Greg’s climax plays on a loop in front of him as he works his cock faster and faster, now biting his unoccupied fist to silence himself. He fears for a second that Greg might wake up and look over to see him coming undone. How demented he must look right now, stroking his cock in the dark, his eyes wild with a want so toxic it could kill him. Would Greg like it? If he saw him like this? The thought alone is enough to make Tom disintegrate. His chest rises and falls heavily, and before he can stop himself he chokes out a jagged moan and comes over his hand. His eyes widen. Before he can even chastise himself for breaking the silence, Greg shifts on the couch and lifts his head up.

“Tom?”


	2. Chapter 2

At the sound of his name uttered by a now conscious Greg, Tom pulls his hand out of his pants fast enough for the waistband to slap against his hips. He shoves the same hand, the one covered with the evidence of his indecency, into his right pocket. Totally casual. He feels like a void, the cloak of his post-orgasm shame hanging heavy over him. Despite this sobering post-nut clarity, Wambsgans Damage Control ™ had gone into full effect the moment Greg had woken up. His mind is reeling, queuing up the justifications for whatever Greg _thinks_ he may have heard from Tom’s location across the living room. It doesn’t matter what Greg thinks, because he certainly did _not_ get woken up by the sound of any type of ejaculation whatsoever. Absolutely not. The cum in Tom’s fist was irrelevant. Circumstantial evidence. The previous few minutes did _not_ take place.

Tom’s brain felt like it was curdling in the wake of the thing that did not happen, but he still manages to line up a few bullshit excuses to feed Greg and save face. The PR machine never does stop, does it?

If Greg should ask, “ _Dude, did you just, like, moan?”_

He would confidently retort, “ _That was your stomach, Greg. Fuck off.”_

If Greg should then wonder, “ _What are you doing out here? You like, hijacked my bed I thought? Are you like, watching me sleep?”_

Tom would scoff and shut him down with a firm, “ _You fucking wish, pig man. I can’t sleep on your shitty hostel sheets.”_

And because he couldn’t keep his mind from going there, Tom then mulled over the improbable notion that Greg should question him with a straightforward, “ _Um, is that cum in your pocket?”_

In which case, Tom wouldn’t be able to keep himself from snorting out a pathetic, “ _Ha! No buddy, I’m just happy to see you,”_ Immediately followed by a murder-suicide.

While Tom was death-spiraling silently, Greg was still looking towards him, waiting for him to say something.

“Tom?” He asks again.

It’s enough to snap him back into the moment, and he lets out a shallow breath. Let the denial commence.

“I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing, man,” Greg says into the dark,

“Oh, can you? I’m so sorry to disturb you, precious Gregory. Please forgive me,” Tom sneers. He slips into that wobbly condescension so easily one might forget that he’s presently harboring a handful of shame jizz in his pajama bottoms. Until now, he would have considered swallowing his own load to be the most embarrassing act he would ever conduct with his own bodily fluids.

Greg flips over onto his back and pulls the blanket up to his chin. “No, it’s fine. I mean, I’m just saying that it’s audibly, like, noted.” He folds his arm under his head gently and continues, “You don’t have to watch me all night. I’m not planning on sneaking out to like, make secret copies of the death papers. Seriously, you can go to sleep.”

Tom ponders this for a moment, confused by Greg’s statement. He was sure that his failure to stifle that final moan had woken him up. Either Greg was being coy and giving Tom an out, or he truly was oblivious to the deplorable things that had just gone down. It was far less mortifying to believe the latter, so Tom chose to do just that.

“How astute of you,” Tom utters sarcastically. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t go all _Mission Impossible_ on me. Not that you really could. You perpetually look like three kids stacked under a trench coat.” 

“Okay, that’s not how I would necessarily assess my body type,” Greg counters. “But like, I wasn’t planning on doing any sneaky shit. If that’s what you’re worried about, I’m not straying or whatever, like, from the plan,” he says quietly. Tom can’t tell if it’s sincere, but his chest tightens nonetheless.

“Good, because I’m not in the mood to break your legs,” he tells Greg casually as he lifts himself from the chair. “Sweet dreams, cocksuck,” he mutters, before practically sprinting towards the bedroom.

In the light of Greg’s bathroom, Tom runs washes his hands under the cold water and splashes some on his face. Climbing back into bed, he tries to focus on the stiffness of the sheets. They were tortuous before, but now he can barely even feel them. Had Greg’s dream taken place in this bed? Tom brings his hands to his temples and presses firmly to stop the thought. He stays like this until he wills himself to sleep.

The next morning, Tom pretends not to notice the way Greg holds his blanket around his waist as he rises from the couch. Or the fact that the cushions are now misaligned, one of them having been flipped over. With daylight pouring into the penthouse, there's nothing to mask the way Greg's cheeks flush when Tom looks at him. He ignores that too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT what I thought chapter 2 would look like so I apologize if it reads like a psychotic break. 
> 
> Sorry if the formatting is wonky.


End file.
